


if I stare too long, I'll prob'ly break down and cry...

by OriginalCeenote



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Damsel in Moderate Distress, Domestic, F/M, Flirty Natasha, Good Neighbors, Knight in Shining Armor Trope, Let's party like it's 1863, Natasha Spoils Her Dog, Natasha is a Widow, Oral, Sam and Natasha take excellent care of each other, Sam is Good with a Lasso, THIS JUST WOULDN'T HAPPEN IN THE TIME THAT THIS IS SET IN!, Tagging this for tea drinking and heated glances just in case, This might be the only het fic I've written in MONTHS, Touch-Starved, Unperiod-typical attitudes about messing around, flirty Sam, heavy smut, old west au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Old West AU. Natasha Romanoff is young, widowed, and trying her best to hold onto what she has left, including a very stubborn calf. She finds help during a vicious storm from a kind stranger.





	if I stare too long, I'll prob'ly break down and cry...

**Author's Note:**

> Sam Wilson as a cowboy. That's all you need to know.
> 
> And, in all honesty, I know Natasha’s predicament is RIDICULOUS, but a) I wanted an Old West setting, b) I wanted a situation where the two of them would end up gratuitously wet and would need to get warm and dry off, and c) this is why AUs exist. This is EXACTLY why.
> 
> Title borrowed from "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses. Don't judge me.

Natasha's windowpanes rattled with the force of the wind as rain slapped against the roof. She watched the drops leak through the hole in her roof and down into the tin saucepan she placed under it, adding it to the exhaustive list of repairs she hadn't made. Natasha was handy enough with a hammer and nails, but there were simply too many things to do. She was only one woman. Widows didn't have the luxury of idle time.  
　  
Nor, it seemed, the convenience of cattle that stayed put.  
　  
Natasha wrapped herself in her heaviest coat and green wool scarf, draping it around the top of her head first and down over her ears. The late autumn storm yielded harsh winds and bitter, cold rain. Natasha tsked at her own boot tracks across her floor; she'd just swept and mopped it yesterday.  
　  
She was about to leave some more tracks. Natasha smelled the first hint of rain at dawn and began to batten everything down, bringing in dry laundry, covering her cords of firewood and bringing enough of it inside for a few days. She penned up her chickens in the henhouse, mucked out the stalls in the barn and fed the horses. The sky was a murky, hostile gray and Natasha felt the beginnings of a headache in the base of skull and neck. That was always a sign that Alexei relied on to tell them to take cover.  
　  
And Natasha _would_ take cover. Once she found her calf.  
　  
Biscuit, her large, brown shepherd dog, raised his head off his paws where he lay by the stove and whined.  
　  
"Come on, you big baby. Let's go get Daisy." He barked his approval, and then whined again as they went outside. Natasha gathered up a length of rope and climbed up into her wagon. Biscuit leapt up onto the bench beside her and licked her cheek before she nudged him aside. "Let's go, boy."  
　  
All around her, she saw trees lashing and swaying in the wind, and the gravel road was already riddled with wide puddles. Her matched pair of mares didn't shy, but their ears swiveled and twitched in the face of the storm. The wagon bumped along as they rolled over stones and dips. "DAISY! Where are you, girl?" she called out as they headed over the horizon.  
　  
Natasha had been out searching for nearly an hour and a half when she finally heard her calf lowing in distress. "DAISY!" She clicked her teeth at the mares and they followed her urging in the direction of the river. Natasha mentally cursed cattle, as a species, for being so stubborn and not having the good sense that the Lord gave a gnat. And to get to the river, she had to follow the trail downhill. "I'm coming, girl," she called out as she climbed down from the wagon, rope looped around her arm and Biscuit in tow. The dog ran ahead of her and barked up a ruckus as he caught the scent of Natasha's calf. The further down the hill they went, the louder the rush of currents grew.  
　  
Natasha pushed overhanging branches out of her way as she descended and finally reached the banks. She swore when she saw Daisy, submerged up to her shoulders in the frigid, rushing water. She appeared to be trapped in a floating bramble; it looked like a neglected beaver dam. Daisy bellowed and jerked her head, turning her muzzle away from the current.  
　  
"Isn't this a fine kettle of fish?" Natasha muttered. Daisy, to the extent that a cow could have an opinion on such things, looked like she agreed wholeheartedly.  
　  
Natasha waded into the river up to her ankles, testing its force in the shallows. So far, so good; she shivered as the water crept between the buttoned flaps of leather, chilling her feet. But she kept moving, heading further into the current; she knew she'd regret her folly of letting herself get soaked, but she would regret the loss of a valuable calf even more. Daisy mooed again, urging her to hurry up and get her loose. Natasha’s skirt darkened and billowed slightly, hemline floating as she crossed the river. “This wasn’t what I planned for today, Daisy,” Natasha told her. Her voice was calm, but her teeth began to chatter. She needed to get this done quickly, before she froze to death.

The river was deeper than it looked; by the time she reached Daisy, the water was rose up to her chest, and the wavelets pulled at her, splashing up at her. Nat sputtered in annoyance as she struggled to free her calf. She tore at the brambles trapping her and tried to urge her to walk back out the way she came in.

No luck. Daisy lowed in Natasha’s ear. Natasha took a different tack. The wind stirred up the river and it continued to swell. Natasha took the length of rope and made a slipknot. She draped it around Daisy’s neck and gave it a firm, experimental tug. “You’re coming with me, girl. C’mon.” She backed off, rope in hand, and Natasha pulled on the rope. Daisy mooed again, confused and panicking, unhappy with the cold, rough currents and the coarse hemp tightening around her flesh. But Natasha pulled again. She stumbled as a particularly rough wavelet slapped at her. Daisy stumbled forward, too, fighting against the current, but she didn’t have the advantage of a full-grown cow’s weight and center of gravity. Natasha wished she had the strength of a full-grown man right about now.

Daisy finally budged, and Natasha continued to back out of the water, making it to about waist deep, before Daisy stumbled again. And this time, she lost her footing and tipped, skidding along the river bottom. The momentum ripped the rope from Natasha’s grip as her calf was pushed further away from her, down the river. “Blast it-! DAISY!” Panic filled her chest as she launched herself into the flow of the current, jogging through  it to catch the rope, finally having to swim. Daisy bellowed, eyes rolling and flailing her legs as Natasha fought to catch her. She caught the rope end again and tried to find purchase on the river bottom, but Daisy was carried halfway across the river, where it was deeper. Natasha banked her leg, bruising it, against a submerged boulder, and the rope was pulled from her grasp again. She swam, heedless of the danger, even though her lungs burned from the cold air and her exertion. Her dress and coat dragged her down, slowing her arm strokes, but she kept Daisy in her sights. 

“DAISY!” she shouted again. The river grew deeper, and she was couldn’t touch bottom anymore. “DAISY!”

She saw spots. Her limbs felt so heavy…

“HEY!” A rich, deep man’s voice carried over the gale and rush of water, and Natasha heard hooves splashing into the current. “HEY, I’m coming! Try to hold onto something!”

“I… can’t!” Natasha tried to swim toward the bank, but she was so tired. But she kept swimming until she managed to reach another outcropping of rock. It was slippery, but she found purchase and clung to it while the water thrashed her senseless. She heard the horse’s hooves again, closing the gap between itself and her at a gallop. The rock’s edge was sharp and rough, and it dug into her palm, abrading her tender flesh. Natasha still held on, until she smelled horse and felt the beast and its rider looming over her.

“Let me help you up,” the man insisted while she looked up from her unreliable perch. He held onto his saddle horn with one hand and reached down to Natasha. “Take my hand!”

“Please… please, d-don’t let m-me go!” she pleaded through chattering teeth. 

“I’ve got you, it’s all right, darlin’,” he promised. His grip was strong as he caught her hand; his gloves were made of stiff leather. He wore a heavy, dark brown work jacket and gray muffler wrapped around the lower half of his face and a gray hat. His dark eyes were kind. He hauled her up from the water, and she scrambled up with some difficulty onto his horse, in front of him. Natasha shivered and clung to him, putting aside propriety because this man _just saved her life_.

Yet, she told him, “My calf! I can’t lose her!”

“Hold on, miss!” Natasha held onto him while he kicked his horse back into as much of a gallop as it could manage, back into the shallows.

“We’re going to lose her!”

“I’m going to set you down on dry land,” he argued. “I can get to her faster without you weighing my horse down.” Then, “No offense.”

Natasha flushed and gave him a jaundiced look. His eyes crinkled briefly as they neared the shore. He brought her back to the shallows, and when he helped her ease down, her legs wobbled, but she staggered to the bank and collapsed in the dirt. “I’ll be back!” he called down to her, before he turned his horse back into the rushing waters. He rode the horse with perfect seat, and she watched him go after her calf, praying the current wouldn’t overwhelm him or his horse. Natasha stumbled along the bank, following them sluggishly, still hampered by her wet clothes.

“Please,” she called out to him. “DON’T LET HER GO!”

“I’ll get her…” He turned back briefly, and his muffler slipped down, revealing a lean, handsome face, still young and unweathered. He had dark skin and high, firm cheekbones. She made up her mind to appreciate his looks when her calf was safe.

When _he_ was safe, and back on dry land.

He took his rope from his saddlebag and cast it once he was within reach of the calf. He managed to catch Daisy around the neck once her journey down the river was impeded by another outcropping of rock. She cried to him piteously, and Natasha heard his low laughter in response.

“You’re a stubborn girl, Daisy,” he told her. “You’ve given the missus quite the fright.” He managed to guide his horse into the shallows slowly, with Daisy in tow at the end of his rope. Natasha laughed, nearly sobbing as they neared the bank. Natasha ran toward them, still unsteady and brittle with cold, and her savior rode up onto the bank, no worse for wear as he brought Natasha back her calf. Daisy mooed and shook herself, moving stiffly from the cold.

“Daisy…” Her voice was a low, weak croak as she approached her calf, feeling her, examining her for injuries. “She’s limping…”

“She’ll be all right. Check her over once you get back home. What about you?” His eyes filled with concern as he took in her bedraggled appearance. He climbed down from his horse, and she noticed that he towered over her.

“Oh, no. Her poor leg’s all bruised.” She ignored his question as she bent down to feel Daisy’s leg. Daisy shyed and protested when she prodded the offending limb gingerly. “It doesn’t feel broken.”

“Then she’ll make it home. Miss, you’re _soaked_. This weather’s not fit for man or beast. How were you planning to get her back?”

“I didn’t know she’d get this far,” Natasha admitted.

“Then, I’ll lead her. How did you get out here? Was that your wagon I saw back on the road?”

“Yes.” Natasha’s teeth were still chattering, and she scraped damp hair back from her face.

Not one to be left out of the excitement, Biscuit came running up to them, pausing to bark at Daisy accusingly. He reared up and snuffled at her face. Daisy answered back indignantly, shaking herself again and shying away from the dog.

“He’s right to scold you, girl,” Natasha told her calf.

“Not to interrupt your reunion, but you can have this conversation once we get you all home.”

Natasha looked contrite as she faced him. “Sorry. I know you need to get home, too.”

“Mine isn’t far away. My parents’ spread is three miles west of here.”

“What brought you out this far?”

“I was going to head into town to the mercantile, to pick up some supplies. Then I heard you calling out, after I saw your wagon.”  

“I don’t want to keep you from it, if you need to get back to them!”

“No. No, they’re home, safe and dry. We need to see about you, now.”

Natasha lifted her chin and gave him a wary look.

“Look,” he told her, gently touching her shoulder. “You’re cold and wet. You’ll catch your death out here if you have to try and get this calf home yourself. I can lead her back and follow you.”

She sighed, breath shaky and broken. “All right.”

His eyes were kind, and he wasn’t trying to charm her. He genuinely wanted to help.

*

Even soaked, bedraggled and dirty, her beauty took his breath away. Eyes like spring grass stared up at him with doubt, but Sam smiled and tipped his hat.

*

 

“All right,” she finally told him. “If you can lead her, we should be able to manage. I don’t live too far from here.”

“Is anyone looking for you?”

“No. No, there’s no one looking for me.”

Her voice sounded so sad, but her face was resolute. “Do you have a name?”

“Of course. That might help. Samuel Wilson, at your service.” He reached out one gloved hand, and she felt strangely calm when she shook it.

“Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.”

“Romanoff? That’s an uncommon name.”

“My husband’s. It’s Russian.”

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“My parents came here on a boat when I was a little girl.”

“But… he’s not looking for you?”

“No.” They walked along the river bank toward the foot trail, with Natasha leading Daisy and Sam leading his horse. “He’s not. He’s looking over me. I lost him a year ago to an infection.”

The air between them felt heavy. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried, Mrs. Romanoff.”

“You weren’t, Mr. Wilson.” She gave him a wry smile. “Do you have a wife warm and dry at home?”

Sam’s lips curled, and he huffed.

“I do _not_. I have a stable full of horses, a few chickens, a flock of sheep that don’t make for great conversation, and a cat who keeps away the mice. But I do not have a wife.”

“All right. Biscuit!” Natasha whistled for him, and he yapped and sniffed at her wet skirts and boots. “C’mon, now!” They headed back toward the path, and Natasha’s legs felt like lead as they trudged uphill. Sam walked slightly ahead of her to clear the way for her, pushing aside prickly branches and helping her to step over roots. Natasha felt herself flush at his concern and manners. As they neared the road, he took her hand, lending her his strength to relieve her burning, wobbly legs. “Bless you,” she told him. She was breathing hard, and his touch was gentle. The rain lashed at them, and the wind licked at their clothing, making it whip around their bodies. Sam held onto his hat and tightened the cord beneath his chin. He helped her up into her wagon, and Sam laughed at Biscuit’s easy leap up onto the bench.

“Daisy and I will follow you,” he promised. “You’re all right to drive back?”

“I’ll manage,” she told him, shouting slightly over the noise. She motioned over her shoulder before she turned her wagon toward home. She rode along slowly, to help Sam keep her in his sights down the road. The gravel was muddier and slicker than it was on her way out, and she hunched against the wind and rain as it flew at her face, nearly blinding her. Natasha sniffled miserably, feeling her nose run from the cold. Her sodden clothes felt even worse while she was sitting still. Biscuit rode with his head in her lap, thumping his tail against the bench. She scratched his ears absently and occasionally craned her neck around to check Sam’s progress. He merely smiled at her, tipping his hat again. 

He had such a _wonderful_ smile and sat a horse so gracefully, easily handling its rolling gait. Daisy ambled along behind him, mooing every now and again. Natasha threw him a cheeky grin before she faced the road once more. They neared her property, and she was grateful that she thought to light the lanterns before she left. She waved at Sam to follow her off the main road and toward her large house. Alexei whitewashed it and painted the shutters a sedate, slate blue. Natasha was never so glad to see her house. Natasha was about to climb down to open the gate, but Sam called out to her, stopping her. 

“Wait. I’ll get that. Here.” He handed her Daisy’s rope for a moment before he dismounted from his horse. Sam guided horse along with him as he open Nat’s gate, and then he returned for Daisy’s lead, taking the rope from her grip. “Go on in and take care of your wagon. I’ll pen Daisy up.” He was squinting from the raindrops running into his eyes where they had snaked down from his hat’s brim. He wasn’t as wet as Natasha quite yet, but he was well on his way.

“Bless you, Sam. You’ve already done so much.” Nat steered her wagon toward the barn while Sam headed for her cattle pens. Daisy greeted the rest of the noisy herd, and Sam noticed her pulling him toward the one on the far left. Sam brought the calf to the pen’s gate and urged her inside, locking it up and laughing when Biscuit scolded all of the cows, particularly the ones that tried to nudge their way out. “You’ve caused enough mischief, girl,” Sam told the errant calf, who still didn’t look the least bit contrite. Sam then headed toward Nat’s barn and watched her unhitch her horses from the wagon, returning them to pristine stables. The hay bales had already been stacked, as well as a half a cord of firewood in the hopes of keeping it dry. Sam noticed several holes in the barn’s roof, though.

“Your roof could use some attention.”

“One thing at a time,” she countered as she looped generously packed feed bags around each horse’s head. “The rest of the house needs my attention, first.”

“How long have you been without him?” Sam began to curry her other horse, drying it off with a rough blanket that he pulled down from a hook.

“Take a look around you and judge for yourself.” Her voice was tart, but he noticed her sad smile and gave her a nod.

“I won’t jump to judgment when you have to handle all of this yourself.”

“Once in a while, the Parker boy comes looking for work. His aunt is more than glad to lend him out.”

“The Parkers? Good people.” Sam occasionally saw Peter, the boy in question, selling copies of the newspaper outside the barber shop.

“Salt of the earth.”

Her voice held a gritty edge. She caught him watching her and her lips curled. “Don’t mind me. When you’re a widow, tongues wag around town.”

“That why you live this far outside its limits?”

Her chin tipped up with that burning pride again. “My husband and I worked hard for every inch of this place, Mr. Wilson. I won’t give it up so easily.”

“I don’t expect you to, and will you please call me Sam?”

“I call my bosom friends by their Christian names, after a spell of knowing them.”

“Sit and talk to me for a spell, then, and my Christian name will roll right off your tongue.”

His dark eyes twinkled. His crooked smile brought out a dimple in his cheek. That look would be the death of her.

“Then let’s sit inside for a spell. I’ll make tea.”

By the time they stabled Sam’s horse, whom he named Nomad, the rain was coming at them sideways. They ran for the house, and Natasha didn’t even nag him to wipe his boots on her mat. He did, anyway, and Sam hung his hat from her hook on the wall. His hair was trimmed short, dark, wiry curls that looked soft to the touch. Natasha went to the quilt rack across the room and removed the quilt that was stretched around it, laying it aside on a skillfully carved rocking chair in the corner.

The room was chilly, but it was well appointed and beautifully furnished. A pine table and two chairs sat in the kitchen, a few feet away from the black stove. Whatnot shelves lined the wall, propping up knickknacks and ceramic figurines. Several of them were ballerinas, glazed in gleaming pastel colors and serenely posed. There was a silver-framed daguerreotype of a sober-faced, handsome young man dressed in a black wool suit. Sam guessed it was her late husband. His expression looked humorless and stiff, and his posture was uncomfortable.

Sam wondered what drew the vivacious Natasha, who seemed to laugh easily, to such a man. Twin rocking chairs waited for tired bodies to enjoy them, dressed with blue cushions. Blue and white checkered curtains kept the drafts out. Natasha’s butter churn sat in the corner, along with a treadle sewing machine. They must have made a comfortable living to afford such a luxury. Nat noticed the direction of his stare. “That was a gift from my father-in-law.”

“My mother would turn green with envy, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Silly goose. If I’m to call you Sam, then you’ll call me Nat.”

Sam chuckled. “Are we bosom friends yet?”

“We will be if you light that stove.” Natasha unbuttoned her coat with stiff, blue fingers. She draped her coat over the quilt rack and indicated that Sam should do the same. “Do you need to rush home? You were going to go to the mercantile.”

“Not on that road,” Sam told her. “Nomad deserves a dry stable until this clears.”

Natasha hummed in concern. “Your parents won’t worry?”

“They wouldn’t want me out in this. My pa knows I’ll come back. He’s a praying man.” Natasha glanced up at him, pausing in assembling cups and a kettle for tea. 

“Aren’t you?”

“I don’t think Heaven’s ready for me, yet.”

That made Natasha laugh outright. “All right, then. All right. Samuel Wilson. I’ll bet you have some stories to tell.”

“And some stories to keep to myself.”

“I want to hear those, too.”

“They might not be fit for a lady’s ears and finer sensibilities.”

“You pulled me and my calf out of the river in the middle of a storm. I never claimed to be sensible, Sam. Or delicate.”

Sam’s dimples reappeared, along with the crinkles around those lovely eyes. “No. I wouldn’t mistake you for a delicate woman, Natasha.”

She moved toward the door with the kettle to fill it from the water pump outside, but Sam stopped her with a gentle hand against her back, taking it from her. “Dry yourself off. Don’t float away again.”

She raised her hand to swat him, but he evaded it, chuckling softly before she closed the door after him. The wind buffeted him as he headed out to the pump. She watched him, taking in his tall, brawny physique. He had a rancher’s muscular arms and broad shoulders and back. She watched him turn in profile, briefly, and her heart fluttered in her chest.

 _Stop it, Natasha_ , she scolded herself. He was a kind stranger. She was a widow, living on the outskirts of a small town where neighbors could be neighborly, but where tongues also wagged. His hand tightened on the pump; his muscles flexed as he deftly filled the kettle. He headed back toward the house, and Natasha hurried away from the edge of the window. Her cheeks felt hot. She didn’t need him to catch her staring, certainly. She fumbled with the teacups and sugar bowl, the picture of industriousness once he returned. Sam set the kettle on the stove.

“My ma has that tea set,” he mused, taking in the blue willow patterned porcelain. “Only takes it out on Sundays.”

“Life’s uncertain, and too short. I use it every chance I get, Sam.”

Biscuit’s tail thumped the floor as Sam approached and bent down to scratch him generously behind the ears. Natasha’s dog was shameless, rolling immediately to his back. Sam grinned and dutifully rubbed his plush belly. “Someone’s not starving.”

“He’s not shy about begging for scraps.”

“Do you spoil him?”

“Of course I spoil him,” she chided. “He’s…” Her breath caught. “He’s all I have.”

Sam sobered, but he continued to lavish his affection on the dog. Biscuit wisely lingered close to the stove, warming his fur. Sam realized he was still dripping and grew tired of the sensation of wet fabric against his flesh. “Would it offend you if I took some of this off?”

Natasha’s bread knife hovered over the loaf. “I’m… not easily offended.” He looked up at her, and her eyes flitted away, but as she placed the spoon into her jar of berry preserves, he caught her eye again. She was flushing deeply. Natasha also had dimples when she smiled, even though she was fighting it. Sam headed for the nearest rocker and moved the cushion aside, not wanting to soak it. He sat and began to work on taking off his boot. Natasha set down the utensils and swept over to him. “Let me help.”

“Do you have a boot jack?”

“Somewhere. Don’t worry.” Natasha knelt beside him and took his left leg into her lap, grasping the boot. Sam gripped the arms of the rocker to steady himself while she tugged, freeing his foot from the battered, stiff leather. Sam groaned in relief, and the sound rippled through her. He wiggled his toes before she released his leg and took the other one. She felt the hard muscle in his calf, and she continued to blush at the intimacy of touching him, but… she was just helping him out of his boots. So he could get comfortable. She tweaked his big toe, making him jerk his foot from his lap indignantly.

“I’m getting a chill just looking at you,” Sam mentioned. “You’re dripping, Natasha.”

“I’ll take care of that soon enough.”

“Don’t stay in those wet things any longer than you have to.”

“Let me set out the tea. And take these.” She collected his boots and set them by the door. She went to speak to him again, Sam was halfway through unbuttoning his flannel shirt. He had long underwear on that clung to his body; she saw the outline of his pectorals and peaked nipples; dark, crisp hair winked over the edge of his collar. Her mouth went dry.

She took the shirt from him and draped it over his coat, so it could dry. 

“Change your dress. The tea can wait,” Sam said softly. “Get yourself dry.”

“I won’t want to be a neglectful hostess, Samuel.”

“You won’t.”

His eyes followed her from the room, taking in her stately walk but missing the way her hands shook. Natasha scolded herself for practically fleeing the front room as she closed the door. High color had flooded her cheeks when she saw herself in the cheval mirror. Her eyes looked anxious, too, and her hair… Oh, it was an absolute disaster. Her careful bun was loose and disorderly, and tendrils of hair hung lank and damp around her face, making her look slovenly and unkempt. Natasha wondered for a moment if, when Sam pulled her from the river, was he tempted to pitch her back in?

No. Ridiculous. He smiled at her like…

She dismissed it. She could make herself presentable. And dry.

Natasha stooped down beside her large trunk and lifted up the lid, considering its offerings. The green dress sprigged with tiny bluebells was simple and loose, a dress fit for work around the house. The bodice buttoned up the front and it wouldn’t require a corset. Natasha quickly shed her sodden dress and chemise, noticed that her drawers were soaked, too, and found fresh replacements in the trunk. Her fingers were still cold and stiff, but she managed the buttons without too much difficulty. She smoothed the full skirt with her palms. She contemplated repairing the wreck of her hair, but she didn’t want to keep Sam waiting. She braced herself and opened the door.

_Green._

The color suited her down to the ground, bringing out her eyes and creating the perfect backdrop for that blazing red hair. Sam stared at her with obvious appreciation. Natasha nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. _He has the sweetest smile._

“Are you warm enough, Sam?”

“Getting there. Your hair’s still damp.”

“It’ll keep for now.”

“Just don’t catch a chill.”

“Some tea might help.” Natasha nodded for him to sit at the pine table, and she poured tea and served bread with jam. “Sugar?”

“I take mine plain, thank you.”

“You’re certainly welcome.” She sat down and sweetened her own cup generously and watched him over the rim of her cup as she sipped. The brown liquid steamed her face pleasantly with its fragrance. Then she had a thought. “Let’s toast. To timely rescues.”

“To new acquaintances,” he added as he clinked cups with her. “What kind of tea is this?”

“Oolong.”

“It’s different. Ma likes Earl Grey. Or jasmine tea.”

“I developed a taste for oolong when Alexei first brought me home to meet his mother. She was a fine woman. Cultured.” Natasha shook her head, smiling at the memory. “I don’t know if this is the life she pictured for her son. She always wished we would have lived in town, instead of out here among the weeds.”

“Do you like it out here?”

“I love it. This wasn’t the life I was born into, but it’s the kind of life I live for, Sam.”

“So do I, Natasha. You’ll hear no argument from me. I love ranching more than breathing.”

“More than breathing?” She shot him a look.

“Yes, I do. There’s nothing more satisfying. I couldn’t live in town. Working in a storefront or in a mill or in a tiny office would suffocate me. I need to be out in the open. Working with animals. Harvesting. Planting. Riding. Anything that keeps me outside from sun-up to sunset. There’s nothing sweeter.”

“Do you ever get lonely?”

“Sometimes. I mentioned that the sheep don’t hold up their end of the conversation, even on the best of days.”

“Maybe they’re just shy.”

Sam snickered, almost choking on a bite of bread.

They chatted and slowly warmed themselves by the stove, enjoying each other’s company and the strong, hot tea. Sam’s table manners were impeccable, and when they finished the bread, he rose to clear the dishes, bringing all of them to the washtub before Natasha could protect.

“That was good tea.”

Biscuit wagged his tail and begged for attention, and Sam obliged him, resuming his earlier scratches and belly rubs. Natasha envied her dog at that moment. She busied herself putting the preserves back in the cupboard and washing the dishes.

Natasha listened to the rain and wind continue to pound the house. She was tempted to ask Sam if he still planned to stay until the worst of it broke, but it went without saying that the weather wasn’t fit for traveling yet. 

He became a warm presence by her arm, taking the towel out of her hand before she could dry her plate. Their fingers touched, sparking a flush that enveloped her whole body. “You don't have to do that.”

“The sooner this is finished, the sooner you can sit with me and dry your hair.”

She nearly dropped the plate, before he took that, too. 

Her hair smelled like rain; lavender tickled his nose, wafting up from the folds of her dress that’d she’d packed into the trunk with sachets of the purple sprigs. Her skin was smooth, almost flawless; Sam noticed a light spray of freckles across her nose when he stared closely enough. When he realized he was doing it, he cleared his throat. She handed him each clean dish, glad he couldn't hear her hammering heartbeat.

Sam pulled out the chair from the table and set it close to the stove. “Bring me your brush.”

Natasha ducked her face, reaching up to smooth back those errant strands again, but she headed back to her room. Sam didn't know the internal struggle she was having as her emotions warred with the stunning, immediate attraction she felt. Her hand shook again when she picked up her silver-handled hairbrush. Yet it was steady when she handed it to him. She sat, barely able to suppress her shiver when he touched her. Gentle, nimble fingers pulled out her hairpins, one by one, and her hair shifted and loosened, succumbing to gravity. Long, damp auburn locks uncoiled and fell down her back. He held out the pins in his palm for her to take; his skin felt warm when her fingertips grazed it.

Her hair rippled over his fingers, soft and thick. She sat bolt upright, posture graceful and proper. Sam gathered her hair back from her face and pulled the brush through those waves, fingers just grazing her neck. Natasha’s eyes shuttered at the sensation of the bristles scratching against her scalp, at the faint tug of her hair wrapped in his fist. It felt good to free herself of the bun, a negligible weight at her nape at the beginning of the day, but an oppressive ache by bedtime. His hands felt so good, brushing and smoothing away the burdens of the day. Her hair slowly swelled in volume as he brushed it dry.

Alexei had done this while they were married, teasing her that his mother once warned him about courting a woman with red hair, that he would have his hands full if Natasha had a disposition to match. And she’d smiled, telling him, “Then we’d better not disappoint her.” Their love had been passionate, and their courtship mercifully brief. Brushing Natasha’s hair had been one of his favorite luxuries.

Firelight spilled over it, bringing out golden, blonde glints. Sam’s pulse quickened at the almost imperceptible shift in her repose, the way she relaxed, inclining back into his touch. Sam separated tangles with his fingers. Static made strands cling to them, as if even her hair craved Samuel Wilson’s attention. Natasha grew drowsy from the sensations of his hands, the flick of the brush, and the way her head occasionally bumped back against him. Her awareness of him, his closeness, his scent, his heat… That was desire gripping her, making her stomach tie itself in knots.

“You’re very good at this, Sam.”

“I grew up with sisters,” he admitted. His voice was a low husk. “I’ve had practice.”

“So you didn't learn this from grooming sheep.”

His laughter made warmth course through her. “No, I did _not_.”

Natasha didn't know when she dozed off. She woke up in her bedroom, alone. Her feet were bare, even though she didn't remember removing her slippers. She was wrapped in the quilt, as though someone laid her down and folded it around her, so as not to disturb her rest.

 _Sam._ She was warm and safe, while the rain lashed against the windowpanes and the wind howled. The darkened sky outside accused her of being a poor hostess to her guest; her mouth tasted pasty and dry. Natasha brushed her hair back from her face, forgetting for a moment why it was loose. Then, the memory came back with sharp clarity.

He’d brushed it, with exquisite care, at his leisure. She’d trusted him, and she’d surrendered herself to him, after a fashion, lulled by his soothing voice and hands. She’d felt safe with him.

She _still_ felt safe with him. Natasha peeled back the covers and saw her slippers, side by side and waiting for her feet by the edge of the bed. Natasha rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stepped into them, then padded quietly out of her room.

The room was dimly lit from one of Natasha’s lanterns. Sam had stoked up the fire in the stove himself after he got her, and himself, settled in for a nap. He sat slumped in one of her rockers, draped in the quilt she’d set aside before hanging their clothes to dry on the rack. His head was tipped back, his features slack and tranquil. She listened to his slow, deep breathing. It satisfied something inside her, seeing him calm and safe, still occupying her space. 

Natasha checked on their clothes. Their coats were still mildly damp, but his was almost dry enough to put back on. When she began to smooth the wrinkles out with her palms, she noticed a small tear in the shoulder seam and tsked under her breath. That wouldn’t do at all. Natasha went into her room and retrieved her sewing box. She opened the tin lid and found a spool of black thread, a needle, her tiny scissors and the silver thimble, another gift from her mother-in-law. She sat in her rocker, took up the shirt, and made the simple repair with tiny, perfect stitches. Her rocker’s blades creaked against the floor as she sewed. The fire in the stove crackled and hissed, protecting them from the chill and gale outside.

Natasha held up the shirt, examining her handiwork. Sam stirred beside her, blinking up at her, and her heart fluttered at his slow, drowsy smile.

“Is it dry?”

“Mostly. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I would have woke up, anyway.”

“Just in time to go back to sleep. It’s late,” she told him. “Are you warm enough, Sam?”

He nodded, smothering a yawn. “It’s toasty. This is a very cozy blanket. You did nice work on it.”

Natasha beamed with pride. “I fixed your shirt, too. There was a tear in it.”

“That was very kind. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. It’ll keep out the drafts. So you can stay warm.” She rose from the chair and went to hand it to him. He took it, wrapping his fingers around the soft flannel and brushing hers. 

She pulled in a sharp breath when his fingers them curled around hers. The tip of his thumb stroked her knuckles, and he felt the little shiver that ran through her body. She was sleep-tousled and beautiful, with those long tresses flowing down over her shoulders, just past the swell of her breasts. Her pulse jumped, matched by his, and Sam’s eyes dilated in the dim glow of the room.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you like that…”

“Forgive me, then.”

“Why?” Her skin tingled, and her traitorous feet moved her closer to him.

“Because telling you how much I enjoyed that isn’t polite, to most folks,” Sam admitted. He laid the shirt aside on the arm of the rocker, and her never stopped watching her, staring up into those green eyes as he kissed her hand, just the lightest brush of his lips. His thumb stroked her skin again, and he feathered another kiss over her knuckle, slowly, to give her ample opportunity to tell him to stop.

She inclined herself toward him, letting him turn her palm up to kiss the soft, sensitive hollow. Small shivers ran up her arms and her heart pounded in her ears. Her fingertips explored his coarse, short beard, and his eyes closed as he reveled in her touch. Natasha’s thumb quivered as she stroked his lips, tracing their fine shape. It had been so long, this kind of intimacy. 

Sam opened his eyes and could only stare up at her, at the way her breath hitched, at the color in her cheeks and her rapt look. Like Sam had painted the stars in the sky. Her breathing was uneven, and she was exploring his face reverently, tracing the line of his cheekbone, of his jaw, as though she wanted to print Sam on her memory. 

“Forgive me, then, Sam,” she countered. “I’m about to put good manners aside.’

She bent down and kissed him, hearing the voices in her head crying out with satisfaction when he met her halfway. Natasha threw away caution and reached out for him, for this end to loneliness on a dark, cold night.

She tasted like peaches.

He didn’t want to break their kiss; it shifted as he rose from the rocker, and she found herself leaning up into it instead of down, feeling her world tilt on its axis. His hands found their way back into her hair, sifting through it, brushing it back from her fevered cheeks. His kisses were gentle, at first. His large hands cupped her face, and she sighed against his lips. Sam felt her hands skim along his sides before she left her arms wrap themselves around his waist. Sam urged her to open for him, capturing her plump lip between his teeth, suckling it, and she acquiesced so sweetly that his knees went weak. Her palms burned him through the soft, thick flannel of his union suit. She found his suspenders, tugging on one strap until it slipped down from his shoulder. He shrugged out of it, and let her take care of the other one for him, groaning hungrily into her mouth.

“Oh, Sam…”

Her voice was so soft and desperate, rushed out on a sharp breath. Sam felt heat rush into his groin, hardening his flesh. Her fingers tugged at the buttons down the front of his suit, working them open quickly, before she slid her hand inside the flap to explore his warm skin and the sparse, coarse hair on his chest. He felt male, and firm, and so satisfyingly hot beneath her hands. 

“All right,” he rasped. “All right, Natasha. I wanted to be a gentleman… please, forgive me.”

“I forgive you. Please, Sam… oh, please… please…”

He swept her up into his arms and strode back to her bedroom, where the covers were still turned back and rumpled. Waiting for them. 

Natasha heard her dog whine from under the bed, and he scurried out when her weight made it sag when Sam set her down, still drinking kisses from her mouth. Natasha found the button at his waist and unfastened it, determined to see all of him, wanting to uncover all of his beautiful skin. Her hands shook as she parted the flaps of his union suit, and he let her scrape the sleeves down his arms before he tugged his hands loose. 

He was so handsome that he took her breath away, every inch of him hard, sculpted and smooth. Her mouth dropped open at his masculine beauty: the trail of hair that tapered down to a thin line and disappeared beneath the open waistband of his trousers; the tender little dip of his navel; tiny, dark nipples that pebbled when she caressed one furtively, making him shudder; broad, yoked shoulders and skin that begged to be caressed. “Let me look at you,” she murmured. Her fingers slowed down, working on the rest of his buttons, and she tugged on his trousers, easing them down his legs. His thighs were broad and tapered, muscular from riding, and she leaned in and kissed his ribcage, making him shiver and tangle his hand in her hair. Her touch was knowing and skilled, and Sam’s composure left the room. He wanted her hands on him, needed her to kiss him and envelop him until he couldn’t think.

Until then, she was wearing too many clothes. Sam tugged her up from the bed by the hand, and he had his way with the buttons down the front of her dress. He parted them the flaps of green calico, baring the thin, white slip. Sam kissed her, tracing the curve of her cheek with his lips, trailing down the side of her throat so sweetly that she moaned. Her legs felt unsteady, and she clung to him as he lapped at the hollow of her throat. Natasha felt her sleeves slip down her arms, and her dress, wholly cooperative, pooled around her feet. Her skin felt so warm through the thin cotton; her supple curves yielded to his hands, filling them once he removed her chemise.

 _Stunning_. Perfect. Sam stepped back, taking her in. He traced a light path down the valley of her breasts, trailing down over the slight, lush curve of her belly. He tugged open the button of her drawers and let them fall, before he knelt at her feet. She stared down at him in momentary confusion, until his lips found her, touched her-

The sound she made reverberated through Sam. Her hands clutched at him, gripping his shoulders, and he suppressed his smile and her fingers curled into his hair. Sam’s fingers stroked her, parting her folds so he could take a proper taste. 

Natasha arched, and her breath escaped her in low, short pants and gasps at the feel of him. Her belly shivered, and her nipples ruched into hard, rosy buds, tingling with every stroke of his satiny tongue. His beard scratched her thighs with every other movement of his mouth, and she closed her eyes to better catalog every sensation and ripple of heat as it rolled through her body.

He paused long enough to ease her back onto the bed so that balance no longer remained an obstacle to loving her. She lay back, her hair fanned out all around her. Sam’s palms felt hot, wrapped around her thighs and splaying them open, creating a nook for himself. Natasha had no more words, could find no sane thought or explanation for what she allowed to happen, other than that she needed this. Needed Sam, and his wonderful, thorough hands and tempting mouth.

Sam wanted her. Needed her. Needed to feel her yielding to him, and to hold her close. He craved the tangible proof that she was safe and sound, warm and protected, certainly. He could have merely slept, and then left at daybreak, after the storm cleared. A brief note of thanks would have sufficed.

But there was caring in her eyes. Affection. He saw - felt - her unfulfilled need for closeness, to have a focus for her caring and kindness. She lived in a home meant for two. Natasha had one extra empty rocker and a cold, unoccupied side of the bed, and a sweet, infectious laugh that needed someone to hear it. Every day.

If Sam had merely left at daybreak, guiding Nomad back down the road, he would have thought about the leak in Natasha’s roof, or if the lock on her pen was sturdy enough to keep Daisy from wandering off again. If she had enough firewood to last through the rest of what looked like an unseasonably wet autumn and cold, cruel winter. If Biscuit was good enough company, even though their conversations were one-sided.

If Sam had left at daybreak, he would have spent his time wondering if Natasha thought about him.

If he had left at daybreak, he wouldn’t know how she sounded when she was aroused, feeling her thighs stiffen with each lap of his tongue as her body arched against the sheets. 

If Sam Wilson had left Natasha Romanoff’s house at daybreak, in his battered boots and mended shirt, he would take the sight of her, tousled from sleep with him, but would never know how it felt to wake up with her wrapped in his arms, watching awareness dawning in her luminous, soft eyes that they overstepped a boundary together, and that neither one of them wanted to rebuild it between them.

No. There was no way on earth Samuel Wilson could have ever just left at daybreak.

Sam took his time, quietly feasting on her until she came apart. The room seemed to spin around Natasha as she lost herself in sensation. She lay spent and panting, completely boneless. Sam kissed her thigh in reverence and worship and stood, admiring her condition and wanton sprawl. Her skin was flushed and glowing, and she was so beautiful that he couldn’t speak. Natasha stirred, leaning up on her elbows to watch him. He was still wearing his drawers, gaping open where she’d left them unbuttoned. He stripped out of them, feeding her hungry gaze. Sam’s cock jutted proudly, turgid and smooth, its tip gleaming with drops of his arousal. His body was so perfect, and she needed to touch him and to feel his skin against hers.

Instead, he took her hand and pulled her upright before he kissed her, and his hands and mouth wandered over her body, exploring her skin. Neck. Shoulders. Arms. Breasts. Fingers. He drew them into his mouth, licked at her pulse. Her long, lean back with its soft dips and curves. Sam slowly enflamed her again, making her ache for him. His hands always caught her hair, holding it free from whatever place he longed to kiss. Sam _loved_ her hair.

They tumbled back onto the sheets, and they finally lay flush against each other, skin on skin. Natasha moaned beneath his welcome weight, twining her legs around him. His thumb stroked her dewy lips, and she nibbled its edge, and he felt himself leaking with need. He stared down into her face. Sam teased her lips again, and this time she sucked his thumb into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, a clear invitation to move forward. Sam’s hips bucked against her in response; Natasha arched into that movement in kind, and Sam’s control dwindled. His hips thrust him against her heat, cock settled between her thighs, sliding against her silky folds, promising her more pleasure.

Her hand reached between them, finding his swollen flesh. She ringed him in her fist and pumped in smooth, loose strokes. She felt feminine satisfaction at the way his face changed and the way his muscles tightened, back arching… he was beautiful to behold. 

“Natasha… please…”

“I want you,” she told him. Her voice was uneven and filled with need. “I want you, Sam.”

She angled him in her fist, urging him to rub the silky, plump head of his cock against her damp flesh, creating friction against her exposed, vulnerable nubbin. Sam pushed himself up, looming over her, thrusting into her grip, simulating what she wanted while not quite delivering. It enflamed her, and Sam bent down and caught her nipple between his lips, punishment for making him want her so much, for already reaching her peak, once. He needed to catch up, yet he almost wanted her to draw out this sweet torture, His flesh pushed itself along her slick flesh, and she panted, moaning. Keening. Her legs were snapped around his hips, urging him to continue his controlled rhythm and to give them both the relief they needed.

He stopped. She whined at this betrayal, but Sam smiled down at her as he knelt upright, back on his haunches, and slowly, deliberately reached for Natasha’s ankle and propped it on his shoulder. Her eyes darkened with want, and she nodded, pleading with him. Up went the other ankle, and Sam leaned in, rubbing himself against her hot, weeping center, before he thrust himself inside in one hard stroke.

Restraint. _Gone._ Forgotten.

She felt like heaven wrapped around him, fitting him like she was made for him. Her face was glazed with bliss, eyes completely lost in Sam, and he moved. He found himself again, through the sound of his name in her ragged, hoarse voice and the light scratch of her fingernails along his hips. Sam only knew the sweetness of her coddling him, squeezing him, drawing him into her supple core. Her hands caressed him, learning the slopes and cords of every muscle that she could reach. His hips rippled in smooth snaps, measured, drawing it out to make her want him and to crave his return, every time. Pressure built within him; Sam’s sac drew itself up into a tight, hard ball. Pleasure rolled down his spine, and his hands stroked over her legs, gripping them as he quickened his rhythm. 

The ticking of the clock, the rain and the wind all faded away; Natasha only heard their broken, hard breathing and intermittent cries. Sam’s thrusts were hard, smooth and driving, hitting her core and making pleasure build inside her again; her fingers twisted in the sheets and her toes began to curl. She was completely lost in Sam, and Natasha replaced every ounce of himself with her voice, the silkiness of her skin, and her molten, liquid sex wrapped around him, tight as a glove.

“Yes…” Her mouth was slack, and her eyes widened frantically as her climax bloomed, making her clench around him. Quick, hot flutters of pleasure pulsed through her, making her hips thrust up at him, and Sam allowed himself to fall over the edge with her, only when she continued to chant it up at him, “Yes, Sam!” like a prayer. Praise. A declaration. Sam released, shuddering and thrusting, hips bucking again every time she squeezed herself around him because Sam just couldn’t help himself. 

 

Sam disentangled them, carefully lowering her burning, limp legs before he collapsed against her. Natasha’s arms wound themselves around him, and her breathing left her in rough, warm gusts that stirred his hair. He shivered beneath her hands as she caressed his back, letting her fingers scratch through his hair, enjoying its coarse texture. Both of them were slicked in sweat and replete, curled together like puzzle pieces. 

When Sam recovered himself, Natasha heard him rasp, “This isn’t… something that I just _do_.”

She huffed. “I believe you.” 

Sam craned his neck up, with difficulty, because it was so easy and so tempting to just bury his face in the nook between her neck and shoulder, and she was smirking up at him, lacking anything resembling shame. His own smile bloomed slowly, and she made a contented sound when his fingers smoothed back a tendril of her hair from her face. “This _is_ something that you do _quite well,_ Sam.”

“At least your neighbors don’t live close by…”

“Oh, stop.”

Her arms tightened around him, and Sam kissed her in earnest. The kisses were slow this time, but no less passionate. Sam paused for a moment, just drinking her in. “I don’t want people to talk.”

“We don’t have to tell them. It’s not the sort of thing that comes up in polite conversation, anyhow, Samuel.”

More questions rose up in his eyes, but she kissed them away. 

They could wait for daybreak, once the worst of the storm cleared.

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot to mention, you NEED to see this absolutely beautiful work of art by the talented esaael, who has already spoiled my muse with her artwork before, keeping me inspired to want to keep writing by taking things I've written and painting them on paper in soft, perfect watercolors. Go. Look at her pretty art and tell me you don't feel inspired:
> 
> http://esaael.tumblr.com/post/165170504321/im-in-a-samnat-mood-not-least-because-of
> 
> Receiving fan art based on my stories gives me life. I have to share it. Enjoy.
> 
> Additionally: This might spawn a brief sequel or two, if I ever get past half the other fics I currently have waiting to be finished. This one came out of the blue.


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